Post by Dominator / Mortimer on May 21, 2018 18:50:54 GMT -5
Thursday 17th May 2018 – 07.26am
Location: Residence of Horacio Mortimer, Totton, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
Breakfast; the most important, and perhaps most widely missed meal of the day in some people’s eyes. Whether or not it is due to the world’s ever shortening sleep schedule, the arduous grind that stretched beyond the limitations of the traditional nine to five routine or laziness in general, it is often an oversight that creates a greater strain on the body that one might realise.
He had never been good at having a hearty breakfast, replacing traditional cereal or toast with a cup of molten caffeine. Amy would only ever reach for a bowl of Sugar Crisp to keep her going strong. Indeed, it was Dawn who consumed breakfast on a continual basis; a necessity for her growth.
This was the first time that Horacio had instructed Dominic to adhere to a dietary plan. He had insisted that this had nothing to do with Dominic’s weight or something that had been calculated using the ‘Body Mass Index,’ but more to trial the efficaciousness and plausibility of the meaning behind an old saying;
“Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince and dinner like a pauper.”
A proverb etched so deeply into the pages of history requires further exploration to discover its true viability; that was at least the logic that Dominic could muster behind the peaking of Mortimer’s interest in such a matter. The evidence of Mortimer’s newfound project had manifested itself in the form of a plaque with these very words inscribed in to it, mounted neatly on his mantle.
More realistically, he wanted to monitor the influx of energy at different periods of time throughout the day. ’Chrono-nutrition’ is the technical term shared by the nutritionists studying the science behind human ingestion and Horacio Mortimer himself throughout this practice.
Seated at the dining room table with only a glass of cold water that has been partially consumed in front of him, Dominic looks pensive. He peers over his shoulder; a fizzling is coming from the adjacent room. The distinctive aroma of grilled meat creeps through the doorway in the form of a small stream of smoke, escaping through the small gap of the open window.
Hearing no footsteps and seeing no shadows, he slips his wallet out of his pocket and rests it on his lap, out of view of any prying eyes. Glancing over his shoulder yet again, he confirms to himself that none are currently present. Nonetheless, he remains vigilant as he unclips the fastener that secures it closed. He flicks it to one side; its cover flops open to reveal a series of debit, credit and store cards each contained within individual pockets. He peers into an open slot, in which one solitary ten pound note stares back at him. Opening another compartment reveals a series of coins, which he subtly tips into his outstretched palm. Only a few copper and silver coins come to rest; a grand total of seventy nine pence.
He looks dismayed as he shamefacedly slides the coins back from whence they came. The felicitousness of this action is impeccable, for no sooner than he wallet is returned to the sanctuary of his pocket, Horacio steps into view with a spatula in his hand, only held up coincidentally as he look into the face of his wristwatch.
“Would you care for muesli before or after the hot breakfast that I am preparing?” he asks hurriedly, not even looking up at Dominic.
It is unusual to see Horacio Mortimer wearing anything other than a suit; though the practicality of such attire for the task at hand warrants the slightly more casual dress sense on this occasion. Despite this, his appearance is still ‘semi-professional,’ having donned a pair of Chinos that Dominic cannot tell if they are a dark grey or faded brown in colour and a navy-blue shirt with a cross-hatched pattern that shifts between black and the aforementioned blue. His shiny black Chelsea Boots are the only elements of his traditional choice of clothing that remain unchanged. A stickler for cleanliness and hygiene, he also wears a plain white apron that covers his upper body down to the tops of his knees, which tied tightly in place with a double knot behind his back. The apron appears to have experienced a surprisingly high level of use throughout its lifespan given the fraying edges and seams. However, the number of food-stains, burn marks and tears in the fabric are few and far between.
The Chronological Order’s founding member returns the incredulous look on his client’s face, as if wondering why there is so much surprise on Dominic’s face. Noticing this, Dominic shakes himself out of his trance.
“Uh… After,” he answers thoughtlessly. Horacio nods, disappearing back into the kitchen. He pats his outer thigh once more; his monetary situation clearly eating at him. He instinctively covers his wallet with one hand as Horacio walks back into the room. In place of the spatula is a full plate, which he lays in front of Dominic proudly.
He is stunned by the level of dedication that went into this meal.
Four halves of multigrain bread had been toasted and laid out with crusts overlapping, displayed in the way a street magician would ask their ‘victim’ to pick a card. Every possible shade of gold and brown seem to amalgamate amongst the toast. Nestled at the bases of the toast are three perfectly circular eggs, poached with flawless results. The most subtle layer of albumen had whitened over the soft yolks, coating them as if to somehow hide their palatability.
Seven fresh and ripe cherry tomatoes wait anxiously at the side of the plate, all of which remain attached to the vine on which they had grown. The icing on this early morning cake is a heavy dusting of thick, sliced bacon, char-grilled to succulent perfection and scattered across the plate as if they had been tossed into the wind. Chopped parsley had been added as the ‘finishing touch,’ sprinkled not dissimilarly to the bacon, introducing some much needed greenery alongside its decorative tendencies.
”Bon appetit,” Horacio states, untying his apron and lifting it over his head before quickly checking his watch once again. “We have ten minutes before we need to leave. And you‘ve muesli to follow. I‘d get a move on, if I were you.” Without another word, he steps away towards the window. Dominic flinches, swivelling in his seat in a bid to protest. Realising that any attempt to reconcile with Horacio’s timeframes is utterly futile, he is instead drown in by the tempting feast set out for him.
He stares at his meal like an artist looking at his palette, trying to decipher which colour to brush upon the canvas that is his tongue first. He cuts very slightly into the centre of one of the eggs before drawing his knife backwards. Immediately, the yolk seeps into the slit he had made and pools like blood as he pulls away a triangular wedge of egg white with his fork, skewering a piece of bacon with one of the prongs in the process. He puts it in his mouth and begins to chew, unsure what to expect from Horacio’s expertise in the field of gastronomy.
Within seconds, his eyes widen before rolling slightly into the back of his head, letting out an audible groan of consecration.
“Man… this is the best breakfast I’ve ever tasted!”
The simplicity of Mortimer’s recipe meant that it could hardly be a disastrous affair. It was bacon, eggs and toast that he had made. It wasn’t as if he had prepared fugu! Yet somehow, the flavours that had emerged from the specifically chosen ingredients tantalised Dominic’s tastebuds. The bacon is crispy, yet thick. It is not anywhere near as salty as Dominic had perhaps expected, but it compliments the egg to perfection. The egg white is fluffy and does not possess the ‘sliminess’ that can occur from being undercooked, nor is there the ‘greasiness’ that serves as remnants of being fried. In fact, the flavour of the bacon has somehow infused with the albumen, along with a pinch of pepper that tickles his gums.
Within seconds, Dominic begins to rip apart Horacio’s culinary masterpiece, ravenously devouring the meal like a young lion, starved for days, who had started to indulge in his first feast of water buffalo. His incisors plunge into the toast beyond a curved corner, ripping it away to leave nothing but teeth-marks in its place. He feels the seeds and grains crunch between his molars in spite of the melted butter considerably softening the bread on one side. Unsurprisingly, he uses the newly formed ‘protrusion’ of toast formed from his last bite to scoop some of the flowing egg yolk like an edible spoon.
It gets to the point where he is not even focused on his food; lost instead within the hedonistic eruption of flavour spewing volcanically in his mouth.
Pure Class Wrestling is as diverse as a plated meal. There are newcomers as green as parsley, meaty and muscular behemoths and seasoned veterans… but, of course, there is always at least one rotten egg that has no place on the plate…
Stacy Jones, to a degree, has the explosiveness of a firework. She will burst out of the gate and dazzle spectators with a burst of colour and awe. In truth, Jones is not so much a flash as the sky as she is a flash in the pan. She may boast about taking down a B-List Hollywood star, the films in which he played the starring roles went direct to DVD, not even making the cut to be ported to Blu-Ray, and can now be found in your local ‘bargain bin,’ but when facing more seasoned opposition, it was painfully apparent that she was not on their level.
Even though she did not technically eat the losing pinfall this past Trauma, she could not muster the strength to deny Grimm’s pinfall either. Only the controversial certainty of the officials’ decision to award Seromine with the victory detracted from Grimm’s triumph. Nevertheless, it was a call that Stacy, herself, could not answer.
The terms ’nearly’ or ’almost’ are used by those who are in denial about the acceptance of their own shortcomings. It is a ‘go-to’ excuse for so many to narrow the margins between failure and success. It is a word that means nothing in this industry. To ‘nearly’ win a match is just a good as saying that they had lost. Then again, Gerard Angelo ‘nearly’ defeated Stacy in her first match back with the company in years, only for that particular contest to end in controversy, much like the one that it had preceded.
The vast majority of Dominator’s triumphs in PCW have been decisive; as a result of his unarguable superiority.
The deployment of Stacy’s tactics leave little to be desired. In a recent interview, she acknowledged her inferiority but attempted a clever spin by claiming she would be able to ‘outrun’ The Suzerain of Time. One glaring flaw in her ‘master plan’ is that, eventually, she will have to confront her opponent. One cannot attain victory by trying to stall for time. There is no need for The Zenith to give chase, for Stacy will inevitably have to come into contact with him of her own accord. The spider does not chase the fly. It simply lays in wait for it to become entangled in its inescapable snare.
Stacy can claim how she ‘almost’ made the legend that is Grimm submit until the proverbial bovines come home. There is a strong possibility that, if the cards fall as should, that Dominator will have his own opportunity to challenge Grimm at the tenth broadcast of Living a Legacy. There is significant interest in such a bout, the evidence of which was clearly captured by the camera crew last Trauma when Dominator and Grimm came face to face for the first time and the arena was suddenly filled by a collective gasp of anticipation.
How disheartening must it be for one’s defeat to be desired at the prospect of an encounter that has been the subject of fantasy bookers the world over? That is a question that should be posed to Stacy Jones andHiroshi Yukio.
If the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, then The Zenith is more than willing to comply.
Stacy may be comparable to a firework, yet if one is to make a comparison, that would make Dominator the living definition of a neutron bomb. A firework can explode in the sky and leave nothing but a scattering of sparks. When a neutron bomb is detonated, it leaves nothing but devastation.
Said devastation has become synonymous with Dominator’s presence. With her defective stratagem and all, how will Stacy Jones leapfrog each and every single other person that The Zenith has faced within this company and accomplish what no one other person has?
What makes Stacy Jones stand out above the likes of Hiroshi Yukio? Or Gabriel? Or Johnny Matthews?
Unlike a large proportion of the competitors who had been entered into the Icemann Invitational Tournament, Dominator did not strive to emerge victorious to stroke his own ego. Even the promise of a guaranteed championship match of his choosing at any point in time was not the definitive contribution towards Dominator’s proposed conquest. Not a lot of people had taken into consideration the injection of cash that this tournament offered; unlike those previous. His reasons are not avaricious. One hundred thousand dollars is as salivating as the meal he continues to consume. He needs the money… to provide for his family.
His beautiful, yet incurably ill girlfriend; Amy.
His gorgeous, bouncing baby girl; Dawn.
Even though they were blissfully unaware of the financial ruin that they faced; Dominator had chosen to accept this burden himself and carry it with him wherever he went. The absence of a competitive match on the last Trauma produced an even greater strain on his bank balance. Even the event before, the open challenge from Muscles Malone did not generate as big a payslip as facing Arica “Trouble” Lewitt in the preliminary round had done.
Granted, Horacio’s sentiments of needing time to rest had rung true. It was the one piece of solace he could take away from recent events. Birthed from this momentary absence from the ring was the reinvigoration that flowed through his veins; the drive to succeed even further without compromise. After all, in this world, it truly is feast or famine.
And if Stacy Jones thought that she was going to rip that pages of this ‘rags to riches’ story, she had another thing coming…
…like a concussion.
Mere minutes have passed.
All that remains on the plate are a few stray sprinkles of parsley, the tomato vine, breadcrumbs and a few dried on streaks of egg yolk that could not be prised from the ceramic plate. As if his tastebuds were on the brink of climax, he lets out a loud, satisfied and euphoric gasp, licking a glob of tomato juice from the edge of his moustache. He leans deep into the back of the chair in which he is sat, placing one hand over his belly to signify his enjoyment. In his elated state, he is not even aware that his eyes have involuntarily closed. For that brief period of dining, all of his problems had disappeared.
It is only when he opens his eyes again that he is startled back into the real world. Horacio Mortimer is stood directly over him. His arm is still hooked upwards with his watch on display. Unlike before, he seems to be staring directly through the watch and down at his client; the timepiece nothing but a scapegoat on which to blame his stares upon in this instance. Mortimer lowers his arm back down, grinning to himself.
“It certainly looks like you enjoyed that,” Horacio states, seemingly complimenting himself for his cooking rather than relishing in Dominic’s own approval.
“It was very good,” Dominic admits. Secretly, not having to pay for the ingredients of his breakfast for a change helped relieve a little stress, at least for a short time. Maybe that was why he relished the experience so deeply. “Thank you,” he adds, remembering his manners. Horacio’s smile appears more genuine as a result.
“I’ll bring you your muesli,” Horacio states, ready to pivot in direction of the kitchen once more. Dominic twists his neck to look over his shoulder as he had done so before.
“Wait…” Dominic calls, revolving in his seat so that he can withdraw his legs from under the table. “There’s something that I need to talk to you about.” Horacio pauses and looks back towards Dominic. He lets out a heavy hearted sigh before turning to face his client. Even though Dominic is seated, the margin of their height difference is slim, even with Horacio stood fully upright.
“Don’t say another word,“ Horacio hushes The Zenith; the only man on this Earth currently capable of doing so. “I know what you are thinking, so allow me to grant you some context. “Eating at inappropriate times can be detrimental to one’s body clock,” Horacio begins. And there it is. Dominic knew there had to be an element of time to his experiment, although this is not the matter that he had envisioned discussing at this moment in time. “Conversely, eating at suitable times can help reset circadian rhythms, or so science theorises. There are a number of variables, of course. Whether you are a morning lark, a night owl, or something in between, I hypothesise that a higher calorific intake at an earlier time of day may be of benefit to one’s health.”
“Horacio… that’s not what I…”
“You might think that your body clock as something that simply determines when you should sleep,” Mortimer continues, pretending not to hear Dominic‘s intervention, “but there are clocks in virtually every cell in our bodies. They prime us for the day ahead; from the second we wake up to the moment we go back to sleep. Our body clocks are operations twenty four hours a day, regulating body temperature, blood pressure and even hormone levels. Every metabolic process has an optimal time for when something should happen.” Dominic looks disinterested. In spite of the delectable breakfast he had just gorged upon, he has now been left with a horrid taste in his mouth.
“At first I thought I was a guinea pig. Now I find I’m a lab rat,” Dominic mutters to himself, reaching for his glass of water.
“This will be just as beneficial to you as it is to my own research,” Horacio smiles dismissively.
“You seem to use that excuse a lot lately, don’t you,” Dominic states, finishing the last couple of gulps of his drink before planting the glass back on its coaster with an unintentional thud. He quickly stands up to continue their conversation, a necessary motion given the nature of the upcoming voicing of his grievance. “Look, Horacio,” Dominic lets out a sigh, trying to sound diplomatic without turning aggressive. “I don’t know if I can afford…”
He stops. He needs to source the best words to address this delicate issue.
“What I mean is, I want The Chronological Order to succeed, but…”
Horacio folds his arms. His eyebrows furrow as his upper lip curls towards his nose.
“Cut the crap and just say it,” Mortimer suddenly hisses. Dominic is taken aback slightly. It is rare for Horacio to come out with any form of profanity. He likely foresees the predicament that his client finds himself in. Dominic’s astonishment soon transforms in repugnance, which he does his best to suppress.
“You want to know the truth?” Dominic scowls. “Fine. If you can at least grant me just a minute of your time to fucking speak, I’ll tell you.“ He pauses once again. Horacio taps his foot impatient. “I’m broke,” he finally concedes, hanging his head. “I have ten pounds and seventy nine pence to my name until I get my next pay check. Trying to fund The Chronological Order is too much. I have a family to feed, damn it! I have a mortgage to pay.”
“Technically, its Amy’s mortgage,” Horacio argues for argument’s sake.
“She only receives so much in benefits,” Dominic explains disgruntledly. “Surely you can understand the dilemma I’m in?”
“I do,” Horacio grins, almost as though he’s trying to hide something from Dominic. It is something that immediately catches The Zenith’s attention. “But what you fail to see is that you are by no means penniless. You owe no debt to The Chronological Order.” Dominic now looks utterly perplexed.
“Then why are you so insistent that I cough up every time I get any source of actual income?” Dominic queries, his own patience wearing thin. “I won a pound on a scratch card the other day and you were insisted that I pay you fifty pence! It can’t go on like this.”
“And it won’t. I’m doing it for your own good,” Horacio grins. “Everything I do is for your own good. You just can’t see it.”
“It’s not the fact I can’t see it. It’s the fact that you won’t tell me.” Dominic makes an extremely valid point.
“What you need to do is eliminate any distractions you may have from the matter that is presented to you at any moment in time,” Horacio elucidates cryptically. “A bear will hunt for days on end to find food. Starvation may be on its mind. The success of its hunt will the definitive factor in the life, or death, of his cubs, which he has left defenceless whilst he forages the woodland. But when the time comes to fight against its prey, it cannot focus on his cubs or anything else. He must eat to survive.”
This seems to be one of Mortimer’s most widely renowned skills; silencing The Zenith into a state of contemplation. How many times in recent months had he deployed unconventional methods of testing Dominator’s psyche. The orchestration of Marx’ defection from Shawn? Manipulating his vertigo as a means to better him as a competitor. Is this another one of his ploys?
“Did you cook me breakfast, or a metaphor?” Dominic frowns once more as Horacio returns from the kitchen, having briefly vacated whilst Dominic had stopped to think.
“Interpret it however you will,” Mortimer flashes another grin, handing him a bowl filled with an assortment of rye flakes, oats, seeds, nuts and dried fruit, as well as some chunks of freshly sliced banana, all of which swim in a shallow pool of milk. “I’m afraid that you’re going to have to eat this on this move.” Dominic looks nonplussed at the bowl. He lifts the rim of the porcelain bowl to his lips and proceeds to tip the contents into his mouth. His cheek swell. A dribble of milk runs down the length of his beard and drips like a leaky faucet. Within seconds, the bowl is empty. He chews slowly, swallowing piece by piece, much to the disgust of Horacio. With one final gulp, he grins toothily; stray seeds cling to his teeth like plaque.
“Consider you message interpreted,” Dominic snarls.
Location: Residence of Horacio Mortimer, Totton, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
Breakfast; the most important, and perhaps most widely missed meal of the day in some people’s eyes. Whether or not it is due to the world’s ever shortening sleep schedule, the arduous grind that stretched beyond the limitations of the traditional nine to five routine or laziness in general, it is often an oversight that creates a greater strain on the body that one might realise.
He had never been good at having a hearty breakfast, replacing traditional cereal or toast with a cup of molten caffeine. Amy would only ever reach for a bowl of Sugar Crisp to keep her going strong. Indeed, it was Dawn who consumed breakfast on a continual basis; a necessity for her growth.
This was the first time that Horacio had instructed Dominic to adhere to a dietary plan. He had insisted that this had nothing to do with Dominic’s weight or something that had been calculated using the ‘Body Mass Index,’ but more to trial the efficaciousness and plausibility of the meaning behind an old saying;
“Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince and dinner like a pauper.”
A proverb etched so deeply into the pages of history requires further exploration to discover its true viability; that was at least the logic that Dominic could muster behind the peaking of Mortimer’s interest in such a matter. The evidence of Mortimer’s newfound project had manifested itself in the form of a plaque with these very words inscribed in to it, mounted neatly on his mantle.
More realistically, he wanted to monitor the influx of energy at different periods of time throughout the day. ’Chrono-nutrition’ is the technical term shared by the nutritionists studying the science behind human ingestion and Horacio Mortimer himself throughout this practice.
Seated at the dining room table with only a glass of cold water that has been partially consumed in front of him, Dominic looks pensive. He peers over his shoulder; a fizzling is coming from the adjacent room. The distinctive aroma of grilled meat creeps through the doorway in the form of a small stream of smoke, escaping through the small gap of the open window.
Hearing no footsteps and seeing no shadows, he slips his wallet out of his pocket and rests it on his lap, out of view of any prying eyes. Glancing over his shoulder yet again, he confirms to himself that none are currently present. Nonetheless, he remains vigilant as he unclips the fastener that secures it closed. He flicks it to one side; its cover flops open to reveal a series of debit, credit and store cards each contained within individual pockets. He peers into an open slot, in which one solitary ten pound note stares back at him. Opening another compartment reveals a series of coins, which he subtly tips into his outstretched palm. Only a few copper and silver coins come to rest; a grand total of seventy nine pence.
He looks dismayed as he shamefacedly slides the coins back from whence they came. The felicitousness of this action is impeccable, for no sooner than he wallet is returned to the sanctuary of his pocket, Horacio steps into view with a spatula in his hand, only held up coincidentally as he look into the face of his wristwatch.
“Would you care for muesli before or after the hot breakfast that I am preparing?” he asks hurriedly, not even looking up at Dominic.
It is unusual to see Horacio Mortimer wearing anything other than a suit; though the practicality of such attire for the task at hand warrants the slightly more casual dress sense on this occasion. Despite this, his appearance is still ‘semi-professional,’ having donned a pair of Chinos that Dominic cannot tell if they are a dark grey or faded brown in colour and a navy-blue shirt with a cross-hatched pattern that shifts between black and the aforementioned blue. His shiny black Chelsea Boots are the only elements of his traditional choice of clothing that remain unchanged. A stickler for cleanliness and hygiene, he also wears a plain white apron that covers his upper body down to the tops of his knees, which tied tightly in place with a double knot behind his back. The apron appears to have experienced a surprisingly high level of use throughout its lifespan given the fraying edges and seams. However, the number of food-stains, burn marks and tears in the fabric are few and far between.
The Chronological Order’s founding member returns the incredulous look on his client’s face, as if wondering why there is so much surprise on Dominic’s face. Noticing this, Dominic shakes himself out of his trance.
“Uh… After,” he answers thoughtlessly. Horacio nods, disappearing back into the kitchen. He pats his outer thigh once more; his monetary situation clearly eating at him. He instinctively covers his wallet with one hand as Horacio walks back into the room. In place of the spatula is a full plate, which he lays in front of Dominic proudly.
He is stunned by the level of dedication that went into this meal.
Four halves of multigrain bread had been toasted and laid out with crusts overlapping, displayed in the way a street magician would ask their ‘victim’ to pick a card. Every possible shade of gold and brown seem to amalgamate amongst the toast. Nestled at the bases of the toast are three perfectly circular eggs, poached with flawless results. The most subtle layer of albumen had whitened over the soft yolks, coating them as if to somehow hide their palatability.
Seven fresh and ripe cherry tomatoes wait anxiously at the side of the plate, all of which remain attached to the vine on which they had grown. The icing on this early morning cake is a heavy dusting of thick, sliced bacon, char-grilled to succulent perfection and scattered across the plate as if they had been tossed into the wind. Chopped parsley had been added as the ‘finishing touch,’ sprinkled not dissimilarly to the bacon, introducing some much needed greenery alongside its decorative tendencies.
”Bon appetit,” Horacio states, untying his apron and lifting it over his head before quickly checking his watch once again. “We have ten minutes before we need to leave. And you‘ve muesli to follow. I‘d get a move on, if I were you.” Without another word, he steps away towards the window. Dominic flinches, swivelling in his seat in a bid to protest. Realising that any attempt to reconcile with Horacio’s timeframes is utterly futile, he is instead drown in by the tempting feast set out for him.
He stares at his meal like an artist looking at his palette, trying to decipher which colour to brush upon the canvas that is his tongue first. He cuts very slightly into the centre of one of the eggs before drawing his knife backwards. Immediately, the yolk seeps into the slit he had made and pools like blood as he pulls away a triangular wedge of egg white with his fork, skewering a piece of bacon with one of the prongs in the process. He puts it in his mouth and begins to chew, unsure what to expect from Horacio’s expertise in the field of gastronomy.
Within seconds, his eyes widen before rolling slightly into the back of his head, letting out an audible groan of consecration.
“Man… this is the best breakfast I’ve ever tasted!”
The simplicity of Mortimer’s recipe meant that it could hardly be a disastrous affair. It was bacon, eggs and toast that he had made. It wasn’t as if he had prepared fugu! Yet somehow, the flavours that had emerged from the specifically chosen ingredients tantalised Dominic’s tastebuds. The bacon is crispy, yet thick. It is not anywhere near as salty as Dominic had perhaps expected, but it compliments the egg to perfection. The egg white is fluffy and does not possess the ‘sliminess’ that can occur from being undercooked, nor is there the ‘greasiness’ that serves as remnants of being fried. In fact, the flavour of the bacon has somehow infused with the albumen, along with a pinch of pepper that tickles his gums.
Within seconds, Dominic begins to rip apart Horacio’s culinary masterpiece, ravenously devouring the meal like a young lion, starved for days, who had started to indulge in his first feast of water buffalo. His incisors plunge into the toast beyond a curved corner, ripping it away to leave nothing but teeth-marks in its place. He feels the seeds and grains crunch between his molars in spite of the melted butter considerably softening the bread on one side. Unsurprisingly, he uses the newly formed ‘protrusion’ of toast formed from his last bite to scoop some of the flowing egg yolk like an edible spoon.
It gets to the point where he is not even focused on his food; lost instead within the hedonistic eruption of flavour spewing volcanically in his mouth.
Pure Class Wrestling is as diverse as a plated meal. There are newcomers as green as parsley, meaty and muscular behemoths and seasoned veterans… but, of course, there is always at least one rotten egg that has no place on the plate…
Stacy Jones, to a degree, has the explosiveness of a firework. She will burst out of the gate and dazzle spectators with a burst of colour and awe. In truth, Jones is not so much a flash as the sky as she is a flash in the pan. She may boast about taking down a B-List Hollywood star, the films in which he played the starring roles went direct to DVD, not even making the cut to be ported to Blu-Ray, and can now be found in your local ‘bargain bin,’ but when facing more seasoned opposition, it was painfully apparent that she was not on their level.
Even though she did not technically eat the losing pinfall this past Trauma, she could not muster the strength to deny Grimm’s pinfall either. Only the controversial certainty of the officials’ decision to award Seromine with the victory detracted from Grimm’s triumph. Nevertheless, it was a call that Stacy, herself, could not answer.
The terms ’nearly’ or ’almost’ are used by those who are in denial about the acceptance of their own shortcomings. It is a ‘go-to’ excuse for so many to narrow the margins between failure and success. It is a word that means nothing in this industry. To ‘nearly’ win a match is just a good as saying that they had lost. Then again, Gerard Angelo ‘nearly’ defeated Stacy in her first match back with the company in years, only for that particular contest to end in controversy, much like the one that it had preceded.
The vast majority of Dominator’s triumphs in PCW have been decisive; as a result of his unarguable superiority.
The deployment of Stacy’s tactics leave little to be desired. In a recent interview, she acknowledged her inferiority but attempted a clever spin by claiming she would be able to ‘outrun’ The Suzerain of Time. One glaring flaw in her ‘master plan’ is that, eventually, she will have to confront her opponent. One cannot attain victory by trying to stall for time. There is no need for The Zenith to give chase, for Stacy will inevitably have to come into contact with him of her own accord. The spider does not chase the fly. It simply lays in wait for it to become entangled in its inescapable snare.
Stacy can claim how she ‘almost’ made the legend that is Grimm submit until the proverbial bovines come home. There is a strong possibility that, if the cards fall as should, that Dominator will have his own opportunity to challenge Grimm at the tenth broadcast of Living a Legacy. There is significant interest in such a bout, the evidence of which was clearly captured by the camera crew last Trauma when Dominator and Grimm came face to face for the first time and the arena was suddenly filled by a collective gasp of anticipation.
How disheartening must it be for one’s defeat to be desired at the prospect of an encounter that has been the subject of fantasy bookers the world over? That is a question that should be posed to Stacy Jones andHiroshi Yukio.
If the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, then The Zenith is more than willing to comply.
Stacy may be comparable to a firework, yet if one is to make a comparison, that would make Dominator the living definition of a neutron bomb. A firework can explode in the sky and leave nothing but a scattering of sparks. When a neutron bomb is detonated, it leaves nothing but devastation.
Said devastation has become synonymous with Dominator’s presence. With her defective stratagem and all, how will Stacy Jones leapfrog each and every single other person that The Zenith has faced within this company and accomplish what no one other person has?
What makes Stacy Jones stand out above the likes of Hiroshi Yukio? Or Gabriel? Or Johnny Matthews?
Unlike a large proportion of the competitors who had been entered into the Icemann Invitational Tournament, Dominator did not strive to emerge victorious to stroke his own ego. Even the promise of a guaranteed championship match of his choosing at any point in time was not the definitive contribution towards Dominator’s proposed conquest. Not a lot of people had taken into consideration the injection of cash that this tournament offered; unlike those previous. His reasons are not avaricious. One hundred thousand dollars is as salivating as the meal he continues to consume. He needs the money… to provide for his family.
His beautiful, yet incurably ill girlfriend; Amy.
His gorgeous, bouncing baby girl; Dawn.
Even though they were blissfully unaware of the financial ruin that they faced; Dominator had chosen to accept this burden himself and carry it with him wherever he went. The absence of a competitive match on the last Trauma produced an even greater strain on his bank balance. Even the event before, the open challenge from Muscles Malone did not generate as big a payslip as facing Arica “Trouble” Lewitt in the preliminary round had done.
Granted, Horacio’s sentiments of needing time to rest had rung true. It was the one piece of solace he could take away from recent events. Birthed from this momentary absence from the ring was the reinvigoration that flowed through his veins; the drive to succeed even further without compromise. After all, in this world, it truly is feast or famine.
And if Stacy Jones thought that she was going to rip that pages of this ‘rags to riches’ story, she had another thing coming…
…like a concussion.
Mere minutes have passed.
All that remains on the plate are a few stray sprinkles of parsley, the tomato vine, breadcrumbs and a few dried on streaks of egg yolk that could not be prised from the ceramic plate. As if his tastebuds were on the brink of climax, he lets out a loud, satisfied and euphoric gasp, licking a glob of tomato juice from the edge of his moustache. He leans deep into the back of the chair in which he is sat, placing one hand over his belly to signify his enjoyment. In his elated state, he is not even aware that his eyes have involuntarily closed. For that brief period of dining, all of his problems had disappeared.
It is only when he opens his eyes again that he is startled back into the real world. Horacio Mortimer is stood directly over him. His arm is still hooked upwards with his watch on display. Unlike before, he seems to be staring directly through the watch and down at his client; the timepiece nothing but a scapegoat on which to blame his stares upon in this instance. Mortimer lowers his arm back down, grinning to himself.
“It certainly looks like you enjoyed that,” Horacio states, seemingly complimenting himself for his cooking rather than relishing in Dominic’s own approval.
“It was very good,” Dominic admits. Secretly, not having to pay for the ingredients of his breakfast for a change helped relieve a little stress, at least for a short time. Maybe that was why he relished the experience so deeply. “Thank you,” he adds, remembering his manners. Horacio’s smile appears more genuine as a result.
“I’ll bring you your muesli,” Horacio states, ready to pivot in direction of the kitchen once more. Dominic twists his neck to look over his shoulder as he had done so before.
“Wait…” Dominic calls, revolving in his seat so that he can withdraw his legs from under the table. “There’s something that I need to talk to you about.” Horacio pauses and looks back towards Dominic. He lets out a heavy hearted sigh before turning to face his client. Even though Dominic is seated, the margin of their height difference is slim, even with Horacio stood fully upright.
“Don’t say another word,“ Horacio hushes The Zenith; the only man on this Earth currently capable of doing so. “I know what you are thinking, so allow me to grant you some context. “Eating at inappropriate times can be detrimental to one’s body clock,” Horacio begins. And there it is. Dominic knew there had to be an element of time to his experiment, although this is not the matter that he had envisioned discussing at this moment in time. “Conversely, eating at suitable times can help reset circadian rhythms, or so science theorises. There are a number of variables, of course. Whether you are a morning lark, a night owl, or something in between, I hypothesise that a higher calorific intake at an earlier time of day may be of benefit to one’s health.”
“Horacio… that’s not what I…”
“You might think that your body clock as something that simply determines when you should sleep,” Mortimer continues, pretending not to hear Dominic‘s intervention, “but there are clocks in virtually every cell in our bodies. They prime us for the day ahead; from the second we wake up to the moment we go back to sleep. Our body clocks are operations twenty four hours a day, regulating body temperature, blood pressure and even hormone levels. Every metabolic process has an optimal time for when something should happen.” Dominic looks disinterested. In spite of the delectable breakfast he had just gorged upon, he has now been left with a horrid taste in his mouth.
“At first I thought I was a guinea pig. Now I find I’m a lab rat,” Dominic mutters to himself, reaching for his glass of water.
“This will be just as beneficial to you as it is to my own research,” Horacio smiles dismissively.
“You seem to use that excuse a lot lately, don’t you,” Dominic states, finishing the last couple of gulps of his drink before planting the glass back on its coaster with an unintentional thud. He quickly stands up to continue their conversation, a necessary motion given the nature of the upcoming voicing of his grievance. “Look, Horacio,” Dominic lets out a sigh, trying to sound diplomatic without turning aggressive. “I don’t know if I can afford…”
He stops. He needs to source the best words to address this delicate issue.
“What I mean is, I want The Chronological Order to succeed, but…”
Horacio folds his arms. His eyebrows furrow as his upper lip curls towards his nose.
“Cut the crap and just say it,” Mortimer suddenly hisses. Dominic is taken aback slightly. It is rare for Horacio to come out with any form of profanity. He likely foresees the predicament that his client finds himself in. Dominic’s astonishment soon transforms in repugnance, which he does his best to suppress.
“You want to know the truth?” Dominic scowls. “Fine. If you can at least grant me just a minute of your time to fucking speak, I’ll tell you.“ He pauses once again. Horacio taps his foot impatient. “I’m broke,” he finally concedes, hanging his head. “I have ten pounds and seventy nine pence to my name until I get my next pay check. Trying to fund The Chronological Order is too much. I have a family to feed, damn it! I have a mortgage to pay.”
“Technically, its Amy’s mortgage,” Horacio argues for argument’s sake.
“She only receives so much in benefits,” Dominic explains disgruntledly. “Surely you can understand the dilemma I’m in?”
“I do,” Horacio grins, almost as though he’s trying to hide something from Dominic. It is something that immediately catches The Zenith’s attention. “But what you fail to see is that you are by no means penniless. You owe no debt to The Chronological Order.” Dominic now looks utterly perplexed.
“Then why are you so insistent that I cough up every time I get any source of actual income?” Dominic queries, his own patience wearing thin. “I won a pound on a scratch card the other day and you were insisted that I pay you fifty pence! It can’t go on like this.”
“And it won’t. I’m doing it for your own good,” Horacio grins. “Everything I do is for your own good. You just can’t see it.”
“It’s not the fact I can’t see it. It’s the fact that you won’t tell me.” Dominic makes an extremely valid point.
“What you need to do is eliminate any distractions you may have from the matter that is presented to you at any moment in time,” Horacio elucidates cryptically. “A bear will hunt for days on end to find food. Starvation may be on its mind. The success of its hunt will the definitive factor in the life, or death, of his cubs, which he has left defenceless whilst he forages the woodland. But when the time comes to fight against its prey, it cannot focus on his cubs or anything else. He must eat to survive.”
This seems to be one of Mortimer’s most widely renowned skills; silencing The Zenith into a state of contemplation. How many times in recent months had he deployed unconventional methods of testing Dominator’s psyche. The orchestration of Marx’ defection from Shawn? Manipulating his vertigo as a means to better him as a competitor. Is this another one of his ploys?
“Did you cook me breakfast, or a metaphor?” Dominic frowns once more as Horacio returns from the kitchen, having briefly vacated whilst Dominic had stopped to think.
“Interpret it however you will,” Mortimer flashes another grin, handing him a bowl filled with an assortment of rye flakes, oats, seeds, nuts and dried fruit, as well as some chunks of freshly sliced banana, all of which swim in a shallow pool of milk. “I’m afraid that you’re going to have to eat this on this move.” Dominic looks nonplussed at the bowl. He lifts the rim of the porcelain bowl to his lips and proceeds to tip the contents into his mouth. His cheek swell. A dribble of milk runs down the length of his beard and drips like a leaky faucet. Within seconds, the bowl is empty. He chews slowly, swallowing piece by piece, much to the disgust of Horacio. With one final gulp, he grins toothily; stray seeds cling to his teeth like plaque.
“Consider you message interpreted,” Dominic snarls.
